Monday, September 30, 2024

WHEN IS IT JUNK AND WHEN IS IT A RARE COLLECTIBLE? DARNED IF I KNOW!

 

As I write this, I’m waiting for an auctioneer to drop by to evaluate the many boxes and plastic tubs of “stuff” in my basement and let me know what’s worth selling and what should be heaved into the back of a pickup truck speeding in the direction of the nearest landfill.

Naturally, I’m praying  he will unearth some long-forgotten item that will turn out to be a rare collectible worth thousands, maybe even millions, of dollars.

I know, I know, I’m a dreamer, but I blame it on that TV program, Antiques Roadshow. You know the one…where a bunch of posh-looking experts in expensive black suits appraise items brought in by people who have just cleaned out their attics and basements and are wondering if Aunt Alma's silver brooch might be worth a buck or two. 

Oddly enough, the items that look the worst – items that even the rats at the town dump would reject – usually are the ones that are worth the most money.

For example, a typical discussion on the Antiques Roadshow might go something like this:

EXPERT: “And what have you brought in for us to appraise today, Mr. Lynch?”

MR. LYNCH: “Well, I found this here old horse bridle in my great-great grandpa’s shed, so I thought I’d check it out.”

EXPERT:  (Pulls out a magnifying glass from his pocket and carefully examines the item) “Hmmm, very interesting. The markings on the leather clearly indicate this was the bridle used on Paul Revere’s horse, Brown Beauty, during his infamous midnight ride in 1775.”

MR. LYNCH: (Completely expressionless) “So, is it worth anything?”

EXPERT: “Well, if this bridle were to come up for auction, I expect it easily could sell for as much as $250,000. Are you looking to sell it?”

MR. LYNCH: (Still expressionless) “Nah. I think I’ll just keep it…for sentimental reasons.”

Let me tell you, if someone ever gave me news like that, I would pick up the appraiser, spin him around and then do cartwheels across the floor. And to heck with the sentimental value. I would unload the item on the first person who showed me a checkbook or a wad of cash.

Which leads me back to the auctioneer who is coming over here today. The last time I dealt with an auctioneer was back in 2006, after my mother passed away and left me her house and everything in it. Back then, I’d been certain that even her ugly ceramic table-lamp with the painting of a powdered-wigged man in knee-length breeches and long white stockings on the front was worth a fortune. Every time I looked at him, I pictured dollar signs all over his pale, pinched face.

And the statue of the reclining frog with a lily pad covering its privates, well, I was positive it just had to be a piece of rare folk art. Even the free set of dinnerware from Grand Union supermarket my mother had collected piece by piece every week for over a year, surely had to be valuable. I mean, the last time I’d seen a Grand Union anywhere, men still were wearing polyester leisure-suits.

So by the time Art, the auctioneer, showed up at my mother’s, I’d fully convinced myself he was going to finance my future vacation in Hawaii.

He started out in the garage. In the corner, in all its glory, sat an old-fashioned, 1920s green-enamel woodstove, the kind with a big oven in it that also was used for cooking. Surely, I thought, he would gasp with delight when he spotted it.

He barely gave it a glance. Instead, he rushed over to my dad’s old workbench and picked up what looked like something that should have been buried years before.

“Wow!” he gasped. “An old electrical meter!  That is really cool!”

I just stared at him. “But what about this old woodstove!  I’ll bet it’s worth a fortune!”

He shook his head. “Not really. They were popular a few years ago, but they’re not now. Nobody seems to want them anymore. They take up too much space and weigh a ton.”

Still not discouraged, I led him into my mother’s house and pointed out her porcelain and fine-china teacup collection. One of the cups even was a souvenir from Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.

“Isn’t this a great collection?” I practically gushed.

Again, he shook his head. “Those aren’t very popular any more, either. And neither are most collectible plates, like from the Franklin Mint.”

Looking past me, he rushed over to the bookshelf, where he picked up some worn-looking old books my parents used to read to me when I was a kid. Most of the covers were hanging on by mere threads. I was afraid if he even so much as coughed on them, he would reduce them to a pile of dust.

“Now these are worth something!” he said.

I honestly thought he was joking.

He also liked the stack of linens in the linen closet, but barely glanced at the pair of Murano Italian glass swans. And the portable bar in the living room didn’t impress him even half as much as one of the big, crooked-looking wine bottles that was standing on it.

So now I think I more clearly understand how this “keep or toss” idea works. I won’t show my vintage Rogers flatware in its original velvet-lined case or my 1977 Princess Leia doll to the auctioneer who’s on his way over here today.

However, I’ll make sure he sees my broken avocado-colored wall phone with the rotary dial, and my rusty old manual lawnmower with the dented blades.

 

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NOTE: I wrote this blog several days ago but didn't post it until now. The auctioneer has come and gone and he took about 9 big plastic storage tubs of my items with him to auction off at his next public auction (Oct. 18, 2024). Mostly they were the newer collectibles, all still sealed...non-sport cards, action figures (Star Wars, Avatar, Lord of the Rings, The Walking Dead, Sons of Anarchy, etc.), over 100 comic books, Garbage Pail Kids, Pokemon, still-sealed Lego sets and more! The auction will be held on Friday, October 18, at 5:30 PM at 48 Airport Road in Concord, NH (I believe it's the union hall with the big parking lot across from the airport & the armory). If you would like to check out the items that will be sold at the auction, you can see them here:

AUCTION - OCT. 18, CONCORD, NH 

My items start on row 49 of the photos and go all the way down through row 54. I know they are only "stuff," but it really makes me sad to see them go. My late husband and I collected many of them together over the years and had a lot of fun in the process. But without him, they are just "things" now. So I'm trying to be brave and allow other people to enjoy them! Hopefully, they also might brighten someone's Christmas this year...     

I think my husband would like that.










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Monday, September 23, 2024

SOME BASEMENTS JUST WEREN'T MEANT TO BE ORGANIZED

 

Now that my mold problem in the basement has been resolved, I rummaged through several old trunks and plastic storage tubs down there last week and tried to make some sense of why things were stored the way they were.

For example, in one storage container there were 10 different Star Wars action figures, a set of kitchen knives, a book about Babe Ruth, an old electric drill, a singing Santa figurine and a swimsuit I’d last worn when I was 19.

Why, I wondered, would those items all be grouped together in the same container when they had about as much in common as a jellyfish and a camel?

So I decided I was going to arrange everything stored in the basement into similar groups and then give each group its own container. At least then I would be able to find items more quickly. I mean, if I were about to bake something and wanted to dig out my old cookie-cutters, I'd be more likely to locate them in a container marked “Baking Accessories” than buried beneath items like pillowcases, dog toys and VHS tapes in the bottom of an unmarked container.

Filled with enthusiasm and determination, I opened one of the approximately 75 storage tubs I intended to organize.

Almost immediately there was a problem. Instead of separating the items into categories, I sat back and read every old card and letter I found. And when I came across a folder of old photos, I just had to look through all of them. 

I was particularly intrigued by a series of photos I'd taken years ago during yet another one of my 1,125 diets. Before I actually began the diet, I'd posed for a "before" photo while wearing a stretchy blue leotard. Then every time I dropped 10 pounds, I'd pose for another photo in the exact outfit to show my progress. There were nine photos in all, beginning at 235 lbs. and ending at 145.  They reminded me of that old movie, "The Incredible Shrinking Woman."

Unfortunately, they also reminded me of  “The Incredible Aging Woman.” The more weight I lost, the more my face and body sagged in every photo, until I pretty much resembled a cross between a Shar-Pei and a basset hound in a leotard. 

Suddenly I needed a break from organizing because I was craving cookies.

I also found a framed photo taken at my high school’s winter semi-formal. My date was a nice-looking guy from a high school across town. He was very quiet and shy, and barely said two words all night. In the photo, the way we were posed and the expressions on our faces reminded me of that farm couple in Grant Wood’s American Gothic painting. The only thing missing was the pitchfork.

A few years later, I saw in the newspaper that my “quiet and shy” date from that night had been arrested for shooting his roommate.

In the third container I opened, I found some of my late husband's things...many of which puzzled me.

For example, there was a gallon-sized Zip-loc bag that contained eight men’s wallets, all old and worn-out. I searched through them, hoping to find a $20 bill or two, but all I found were long-expired credit cards and driver's licenses.

To be honest, when I first saw all of those wallets, I wondered if my husband might secretly have been moonlighting as a pickpocket, so I was relieved that everything in them had his name on them and not some stranger's. One wallet was so old, there still was a photo of one of my husband's ex-girlfriends from the 1960s tucked in it…the same petite, shapely, dark-haired ex-girlfriend he’d once mentioned bore a striking resemblance to Annette Funicello. 

All I can say is his ex's body parts didn’t look quite so perky or Annette-like after I shoved her photo through the paper shredder.

I also found the spare keys to every car my husband had owned since his 1969 VW Beetle, along with his first pair of bowling shoes, a brightly patterned Mexican poncho and a big, puffy fur hat with furry ear flaps. It resembled one of those hats Russians wear in Siberia, and was made of some kind of real animal fur that fell out in clumps the moment I touched it. 

I thought it was a strange thing for my husband to own because he'd always been the type who complained about being hot even in mid-winter, and usually wore his spring jacket in February.

I’d never seen him wear that hat even once…probably because he was afraid our dogs would catch a whiff of it and attack him.

In the next container, on which the lid was warped and didn't fit very tightly, I found several stuffed animals, a cast-iron frying pan (covered in rust), formerly white Go-Go boots (also sporting some rust, thanks to the pan), a vintage Monopoly game and…

The world’s most hideous-looking spider on steroids.

That put an immediate end to my desire to organize anything down in the basement ever again.

I figure if I want to bake cookies and need my cookie cutters, I can always run down to the store and buy some. 

Even better, I'll just use a sharp knife to hack out some designs in the dough and call it creativity.

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.










 




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Monday, September 16, 2024

I'VE SEEN (AND WORN) SOME PRETTY CREATIVE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES OVER THE YEARS

 


October always has been one of my favorite months. There’s just something about the crisp air, the brightly colored leaves and the pumpkin population-explosion I love. 

I also love Halloween, the national holiday for sweets lovers (I’m pretty sure my dentist loves it, too). But even though mountains of free toothache-and-bellyache-inducing candy are my equivalent of heaven, I honestly enjoy the Halloween costumes even more.

While searching for something in the basement the other day, I found a trunk filled with my old Halloween costumes. The moment I pulled out the first one, I was transported back to my childhood.

When I was a kid, my Halloween costumes never were store-bought or something predictable like a witch, a ghost or a princess. No, my mother, who was a talented seamstress, always designed and sewed original costumes for me.

One year I was a female Zorro, wearing a black skirt, hat, cape and boots and carrying a fake sword. Another year, I was a firefly, complete with wings that were covered with tiny blinking lights that hooked to a battery pack, which, back in those days, was considered to be both innovative and “ooh” inspiring. And then there was my Spanish senorita costume...a gown with layers of red and black satin ruffles trimmed with gold sequins and accessorized with a rose-adorned tiara with a lacy black veil (mantilla).

But as clever as I thought my costumes were back then, they couldn’t hold a candle to many of the costumes I’ve seen since, especially when I lived in a busy neighborhood where it wasn’t unusual to have at least 100 trick-or-treaters on Halloween night. I swear, some parents must have spent months thinking up and creating some of those costumes for their kids. 

I remember one girl who came dressed as a dining-room table. The cardboard table was adorned with a white tablecloth, dishes, silverware and napkins, all solidly glued down. Popping up through a hole in the middle of the table was the girl’s head, which was decorated like a centerpiece of colorful flowers. I was worried the poor kid would kill herself trying to get down my porch steps because there was no way she could see her feet.

Then there was the boy whose costume was a giant box of Corn Flakes. The box was covered with fake blood and the boy was holding a big plastic knife, also with blood on it. Confused, I asked him what he was supposed to be.

“A cereal killer,” he answered in a tone that told me he was insulted I’d even had to ask.

Another little boy came as a giant tooth with a smiley face painted on the front. The top right side of the tooth had a prominent cavity in it that actually was a good-sized hole. 

“Just put the candy directly into the cavity,” his mother said with a shrug. “It’s where it’s going to end up in his real teeth anyway!”

One girl, a teenager, was dressed in a skeleton costume. The puzzling part was she also was wearing high heels, an evening gown, dangling rhinestone earrings with a matching necklace and bracelets, and a long, glamorous-looking brunette wig.

“Let me guess,” I said as I handed a candy bar to her. “You’re supposed to be the skeleton of a rich woman?”

“I’m not a skeleton,” she answered. “I’m a fashion model.”

Her companion was a girl who was wearing an old bathrobe, baggy flannel pajamas, big pink hair curlers and fuzzy slippers. She had white makeup smeared all over her face and an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. “I’m my mother,” she said, before I even could ask. 

But there was one costume that really scared me, and I’ve never figured out how it was made. I opened the door to see a tall, headless guy dressed in a long black cloak. Tucked underneath his arm was a decapitated head. I figured the guy’s real head was somewhere up in the neck part of the costume, and there probably were eyeholes in it so he could see. As I searched for the eyeholes, the decapitated head under his arm suddenly moved, looked at me and said, “trick or treat!”  I was so startled, I jumped. That had to be one of the most creative costumes I’ve ever seen.

No, I take that back. The award for creativity has to go to three college-aged guys who, on the spur of the moment one Halloween night, decided they’d like some candy. I opened my door and there they were, not wearing costumes, but kneeling on my porch, their hands clasped in front of them.

“Trick or treat!” they shouted in unison.

“I’m not giving you any candy,” I said. “You’re not even wearing costumes.”

“Yes we are,” one of them said, smiling broadly. “We’re three praying mantises.”

Heck, I then felt obligated to give them the candy just for originality.

Where I live now, in the middle of the woods, I’m lucky if I see 10 trick-or-treaters on Halloween. And when I do, they usually are dressed like one of the Marvel superheroes, so the days of creativity and imagination seem to be gone.

My faith partially was restored last year, however, when I saw what appeared to be two trick-or-treaters (one in the front and one in the back) sharing a very cool, very realistic-looking deer costume, come walking up my driveway.

I thought, “At last! Something different instead of Spider-Man, Iron Man or Wolverine!”

But for some reason, when I opened the door, waiting for them to come get their candy, the kids in the deer costume dashed off into the woods.

Go figure.

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(This was the last costume my mom ever made for me. It was back in the '80s, when I was invited to a Halloween party and decided I wanted to go as a rock star. It was a glittery copper in color. I thought the wig she included was pretty cool!).



Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.










 



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Monday, September 9, 2024

SPENCER'S ALWAYS WAS MY FAVORITE STORE IN THE STEEPLEGATE MALL...UNTIL...

 

 

I really miss the Steeplegate Mall in Concord. The last time I was in Concord and saw it, now just a shell of its former bustling self, it pained my heart (either that or it was the burrito I’d eaten for lunch).

How well I remember buying Star Wars toys in the toy shop or hanging around in the pet shop…until their supply of crickets and other insects they’d kept out back for reptile-feeding purposes somehow got loose and ran rampant. From what I heard, Radio Shack ended up with most of the creepy crawlers paying a surprise visit, which probably contributed to the store’s early demise. The pet shop also mysteriously disappeared not too long after that.

But if I had to choose, I’d say Spencer’s was my favorite store there. I had been receiving the Spencer’s Gifts catalog in the mail for years, so I was really excited to explore an actual store with the same name.

I wasn't disappointed. The moment I set foot in the place, I felt as if it had been created especially for me – a.k.a. the lover of weird, unusual, racy and humorous stuff. My eyes grew wide as they scanned the crowded shelves of character masks, action figures, stuffed animals, games and joke items. There also was an area of X-rated “toys” and greeting cards, and a rack of T-shirts and posters that featured everything from TV, music and movie icons to witty and/or risqué sayings and illustrations. The store’s jewelry also was unique for that era – nose rings, tongue and navel studs, and even spiked leather chokers.

But my go-to area always was the 50%-off section, where the store displayed its marked-down items and I never failed to find a great bargain.

Year after year, I continued to frequently shop in and enjoy Spencer’s…that is, until the humiliating day that ruined everything for me…

I was having a good time hunting for bargains, as usual, and was excited to find several marked-down items that were on my “must-have” list, such as a talking Darth-Vader bank. Finally, with my carefully selected items in my arms, I headed toward the check-out counter. That was when I spotted another display of more sale items near the store's entrance and headed over there.

On one end of a makeshift, temporary shelf was a collectible doll marked down from $25 to $9.98. I lifted the doll to get a closer look, and when I did, the shelf acted just like a seesaw when a big guy is seated on one end and a petite woman is on the other…and the big guy suddenly decides to jump off.

I saw the merchandise go flying off, but I just stood there, frozen, still clutching the collectible doll and the other items I wanted to buy. A loud crash and the sound of glass shattering pretty much told me I’d caused a not-so-minor accident. I felt something warm and wet on my feet, which I immediately assumed was blood. Not daring to look down because I feared I’d see a few of my toes separated from my foot, I panicked and did the last thing I wanted to do at that moment…I screamed.

That’s when I happened to catch a glimpse of the mutilated remains of a lava lamp lying on the floor near my feet. Slimy blue lava-lamp innards and pieces of glass were everywhere, including all over my new shoes. To my relief (and utter embarrassment) I realized I wasn’t bleeding after all.

Just about everyone in the store came rushing over. The first one to arrive was a young female employee – I think she might have been the manager – who ended up sliding right past me on the blue oil slick that once had been a clean floor.  

“Are you okay?” she asked, doing a really bad impersonation of Tara Lipinski as she slid back toward me.

“I’m fine,” I managed to squeak in reply, my cheeks nearly bursting into flames.

Mops and buckets appeared, courtesy of another employee, and the clean-up began. One thing about lava-lamp innards, however, was the more the employees mopped them, the more they seemed to spread out. As the little blue pond rapidly transformed into an ocean, I sensed the employees were getting frustrated.

For one thing, there was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the movie character, Austin Powers, right near the entrance, and every time someone walked past it, the cut-out figure, which contained a motion detector, would shout, “Crazy, baby!”

During the mop-up procedure, good old Austin Powers cried, “Crazy, baby!” every time a mop moved...until one employee finally muttered, “Oh, shut up!” and carted Austin off to parts unknown.

Meanwhile, I just stood there, holding my breath and waiting to hear, “You broke it, you own it!” or “You’ve damaged our floor beyond repair and you'll have to pay for a new one...or you'll hear from our lawyers!”  

When I couldn’t bear another minute of waiting to find out what my punishment (or sentence) was going to be, I plucked up the courage to ask the female employee what she wanted me to do.

She cast me her very best constipated smile and said, “Everything’s under control. You’re all set, so you can leave now, if you’d like.” She then laughed and added, “And don’t ever come back!”

To be honest, I really didn’t want the doll that had caused the whole lava-lamp fiasco, but seeing there no longer was a shelf to set it on, thanks to me, I felt obligated to buy it. I walked over to the register, leaving blue tracks across the floor as I did, and paid for my purchases. Then I bolted out of the store and never looked back.

Ever since then, whenever I’m anywhere near a lava lamp (which isn’t very often, thank goodness) I nearly break out in hives.

So believe me, I'm praying those lamps never become all the rage again.


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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.










 



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Monday, September 2, 2024

WHY DOES PERFUME SMELL SO WEIRD ON ME?

 

I don't know what it is about my body chemistry when it comes to cologne or perfume, but the moment I spray it on my skin, what smells wonderful to me in the store usually ends up making me smell as if I tangled with the north end of a south-bound skunk.

I've never had much luck with perfume. Back when I was in junior high, the only one we girls could afford was something called Blue Waltz. It cost about a dollar a gallon and had such a strong, sweet scent to it, every time we went outside, swarms of bees attacked us.   

One day, however, my bottle of Blue Waltz mysteriously disappeared. Years later, my mother confessed she'd poured it down the toilet because the smell of it gave her a headache and made her want to lose her lunch. Somehow, when I'd bought it, that wasn't quite the effect I'd been hoping for. 

Alas, I have been trying for years to find a scent I really like. I prefer something light, with a citrus base. I don't like anything that contains strong musk.

Back in the 1990s, I thought I'd finally found the perfect scent. It was called Skin Cooler by Bonne Bell, and it smelled strongly of lemons and faintly of flowers. When I sprayed it on myself, surprisingly it didn't turn into something that smelled like lighter fluid the minute it hit my skin. I loved it.

But my years of experience have taught me that the minute I say I love a product, it usually meets a swift and premature death. Bonne Bell Skin Cooler was no exception. I spent years searching endlessly for more of it without finding any anywhere. Then I got my first computer and was able to expand my search to the wide world of the Internet. I nearly danced a jig when I found a wholesale perfume store that carried Skin Cooler. I immediately ordered two bottles.

I don't know how long that Skin Cooler had been sitting around in the wholesaler's warehouse, but it was so old, it smelled as if it had fermented into something about 100 proof. I was afraid to wear it while driving in case I was pulled over by the police. Just the odor that would have wafted from my car when I rolled down the window would have all but guaranteed an arrest for DUI.

To make my long-time search for the perfect scent even more difficult, my late husband was very fussy about colognes and perfumes. Every scent I tried over the years was met with a less-than-enthusiastic response from him.

For example, we were in a restaurant one day and he casually mentioned he liked the perfume our waitress was wearing. Eager to finally find a scent he actually liked, I made a point of asking her what she was wearing, before she was able to escape. The next day I rushed out to buy some.

When my husband came home from work that night, I was wearing my new perfume.

He wrinkled his nose. "What stinks?"

I was hoping he might have been catching a whiff of one of the dogs, but as he moved closer to me, the wrinkles on his nose multiplied.

"It's that perfume you liked so much on the waitress yesterday!" I explained.

"Smelled much better on her," he said.

"That's probably because she was carrying a tray full of cheeseburgers at the time!" I snapped. "I'll bet if they had a scent called 'Sizzling Sirloin' you'd love it!"

I finally gave up on colognes and perfumes altogether and didn't wear any for a long time. Then one day, I was in a local pharmacy when a woman passed by me and I caught the breeze of a lovely, light scent.

I chased after her and leapt in front of her.

“I love your cologne!” I gushed. “What brand is it?”

"It's called 'Falling in Love' by Philosophy," she said. "I get lots of compliments on it."

So once again, I searched the Internet. “Falling in Love” was described as smelling like berries, vanilla and whipped cream. I wondered if I’d enjoyed the scent because it actually smelled nice…or because I’d just been hungry at the time. I thought it was somewhat pricey, especially since I could have purchased a keg of my old childhood favorite, Blue Waltz, for the same price. But I decided to be brave and splurge.

It arrived and smelled great in the bottle – even better than I’d remembered it smelling on the woman in the pharmacy. And when I sprayed it on myself, my body chemistry didn’t instantly transform it into something that would make my dogs attempt to bury me. I felt encouraged.

But even more miraculous, my husband actually liked it.

The only problem was the scent lasted only about 10 minutes after I applied it, and then it vanished. One of my friends who raved about the scent when I wore it (she was able to catch me within the 10-minute time frame) decided to buy some. But then she also complained about how rapidly the scent evaporated.

The solution came in the form of Falling in Love solid perfume, which is similar to the consistency of ChapStick (but about 10 times more expensive). It lasts for a whole 20-30 minutes after I apply it.

The scent of Blue Waltz, however, used to linger through at least five showers.

They just don’t make stuff the way they used to.

 

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.










 


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